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(Born: 1829 / Australia)

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Untitled 3

Nothing seems changed; here's the oaken chair,
That every night I knelt beside,
As I whispered to God the simple prayer
I learned from my mother when I was her pride.
The old familiar things of then,
Unchanged, are beautiful still to the now;
But I am transformed in heart, and when
Will guilt ever cease to shadow my brow?

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004


Read poems about / on: pride, beautiful, mother, god, night, heart, change

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